The case was over. Again, successful. Of course, John thought. Cases rarely go unsolved after Sherlock is through with them.
But Sherlock was not having his usual after-case high. There was no smug satisfaction in the figure leaning heavily against the cab door who looked as dismal as the rain that pelted the windscreen, encasing the taxi in a sodden blanket of gray.
John knew better than to speak; it was doubtful any words would penetrate the shroud of isolation Sherlock had wrapped around himself. John sighed, grateful for the soft music coming from the radio. The words called to him.
When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.*
Is that how he felt about Sherlock? For want of a better word, they were definitely connected. He couldn't deny that there was a unique something in the relationship they had. John knew that he saw what others did not: the humanity buried beneath Sherlock's harsh exterior – tempered steel that was tough, but more brittle than most others realised.
Sherlock was amazing. OK, Watson, admit it-you are bewitched! But-love? Is that what he felt?
It took but a moment's reflection to know the answer.
Yes.
But what kind of love? He had absolutely no idea, and that thought alone shook him to his foundation. I'm going to have to re-write my definition of it, he thought. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock had chosen him as his only friend. Beyond that, Sherlock kept the depth of his feelings reinforced by a rebar.
It had been an unsettling case. A seven-year-old girl had gone missing, and the baffled police had launched a particularly hurtful counter-attack at Sherlock after a barrage of insults from the Consulting Detective. The parents were hurling accusations at the nanny not minding the girl properly, and a ten-year-old boy was crying while a woman was chastising him for making a scene.
"No one believes me!" the boy screamed. "There was a man. He took Chrissie. I saw him. He wrapped his ugly scarf around her mouth. Why won't anyone believe me?"
John saw something shift in Sherlock's expression before he uttered "Oh!"
A man barked: "Will someone please get that kid out of here?"
"Shut up, all of you!" Sherlock shouted. He turned toward the boy. John tensed; if Sherlock was going to go off on that child, John was going to have none of it.
"I believe you." The soft baritone somehow silenced the room where his shout had not.
John flanked Sherlock as he started across the room. "Brian," John supplied, sotto voce.
Sherlock stopped in front of the boy. "I believe you, Brian."
"Describe it."
Brian looked confused by the non-sequitur. Sherlock gently put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "The scarf. What colour was the scarf?"
"It looked like throw up."
Sherlock nodded, not reacting in the slightest to the boy's choice of words.
"John, the photos?"
John had watched, transfixed, as the Consulting Detective had gone from brusque and belittling everyone in the room-John included-to gentle and caring, his penetrating stare now softly focused on the boy. It took him a moment to realise Sherlock had addressed him.
Sherlock's eyes never left the boy's. "Now, please, John."
"Right." John handed him the pile of crime scene photos and stills from the CCTV cameras.
Sherlock ransacked them until he found the one he wanted. "This man," Sherlock said with certainty, as he pointed to a man, barely discernible on the periphery of the playground, who was wearing a hideous chartreuse scarf.
The boy nodded emphatically. "Yes! Yes, that's him!"
It was the break in the case they'd needed. Young Chrissie was found, frightened but unmolested by the sexual predator now in police custody.
In the back of the cab, Sherlock stirred. He looked at John with a knowing expression.
"You have questions."
"When don't I?"
"You want to know why. Why this case was...different... for me."
John nodded. Sherlock always seemed to know precisely the questions John wanted answered-something else he found bewitching about the man.
"They didn't listen to the boy. He'd told the first responders about the man in the scarf but they dismissed him. Didn't listen to what they considered the ramblings of a child. I was ignored once, too, and because of that I couldn't save Carl Powers or bring his killer to justice. But Brian saved Chrissie today."
John nodded emphatically. "You both saved her, Sherlock. It was amazing how you remembered the scarf in those photos when no one else did. You made a difference. To her. And to that boy. Because you believed him."
As Sherlock's gaze softened, a gentle silence fell between them.
John's attention was drawn again to the lyrics coming from the radio.
I know you haven't made up your mind yet.
But I would never do you wrong
I've known it from the moment that we met
No doubt in my mind where you belong.
He knew with absolute certainty that Sherlock trusted him. Trusted him with his life. But did he feel the same sense of belonging that kept John returning to Baker Street despite the sometimes thoughtless, hurtful words Sherlock spat at his flatmate when he felt necessary to protect himself by lashing out?
The storms are raging on the rolling sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You haven't seen nothing like me yet.
He had too many regrets already. Not making his – what? dedication? commitment? – known to the slightly mad detective would be one regret he could not tolerate. Their partnership was still relatively new but he could feel the shift in their relationship; he sensed a slow but inevitable continental drift that would bring them closer. He'd already surprised Sherlock on more than one occasion.
Oh, Sherlock, you ain't seen nothin' yet.
Could John ever say these things out loud? He'd feel highly uncomfortable doing so and Sherlock, well, he'd... who the hell knew what Sherlock Holmes would do? Withdraw? Sneer? Or would he surprise and bewitch John yet again with a tiny lift of the corner of his mouth and his signature eye roll that whispered obviously?
Nothing that I wouldn't do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
To make you feel my love
No, he could never say these things aloud. As far as John knew, Sherlock could never be bewitched by someone as ordinary as he was.
But, Sherlock often seemed to be able to read his mind. When words seemed too treacherous a route, maybe he might transmit his feelings by sheer force of will.
.
.
*Lyrics to "Make You Feel My Love" by Bob Dylan.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Yet another case was over and again, the result was a success! That is, if this particular one could be classified as such without sounding grotesque in a way others would frown upon, Sherlock thought.
According to people, any case that ended in a fatality could hardly be celebrated as a success, but the end result could have been even worse – much, much worse, if it weren't for his conductor of light.
The high that accompanied any resolution was there, but it was tempered by the undeniable, embarrassing fact that he had missed something. Two things, in fact, and it had been John who had remedied the first of these oversights, leading to the resolution of the case.
John, whose contributions were often dismissed or undervalued by himself, by Sherlock and by the police... Tonight John had received due acknowledgement from everyone involved, so it had to be something else. Was something else missing?
Oh! he realized!
This wasn't about something missing. It was something extra, something novel, something unprecedented that he was feeling: John had been amazing.
What was wrong with him; he never used words like that to describe anyone.
As verbose as Sherlock knew he was, he was not good with words. Not words that had to do with feelings. How could he tell John how important he'd become to him when he couldn't effectively describe it to himself?
John was huddled into himself, his temple pressed against the window of the cab. Sherlock would usually ask the cabbie to turn off the radio, but tonight he hoped it would help John recover from the evening's events. If John hadn't been by his side tonight, the body count could have much been much higher.
The words of the song on the radio drifted into his awareness.
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you.
Baby, I'm a man, maybe I'm a lonely man
Who's in the middle of something
That he doesn't really understand.*
That much was true, although he cringed at the use of the word baby. Such purposeless sentiment!
Who the hell was this man sitting beside him, and what right did he have to shove his mental equilibrium so off kilter? Why the hell was he even asking these questions?
Within two days of meeting John, his army doctor had passed muster not only with him, but with the fraternal overlord. Now, barely a month into sharing their flat, John had eased a loneliness he hadn't been aware he'd felt. The damned man was positively bewitching.
Tonight, they hadn't even been on a case; instead, they'd been in East London doing research. They had just started to turn the corner onto Wellington Road when Sherlock roughly pulled John back. With a quick sweep of his eyes, Sherlock had taken in and assessed the entire scene: a dozen young men from two gangs - the Woodgrange E7 and the Beckton E6 - stood on opposite sides of the street, obviously in a stare-down that could escalate into bloodshed in a moment's notice.
Two older men, 60s, homeless, watched from nearby; the elder of the two was especially on guard, his eyes edgy, his movements jerky as he stood and reached toward his back pocket. The situation was volatile: gun and knife crime in London had soared over the last year.
That's when it all had gone to hell.
The music from the cab's radio called out to Sherlock again, shaking him out of his recent memories. He could see slight tremors still running through John's body, hear the barely audible "Christ".
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time,
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you.
"You all right?"
"Adrenaline crash." John's voice was rough with emotion.
Sherlock did his best eye roll and got the hoped-for flicker of a grin from his partner. Partner? Colleague? Friend?
John then turned to look out the window, and Sherlock reviewed the night's events in his head yet again.
A boy had come around a corner and walked casually down the street, seemingly oblivious to the tense situation. He was clean shaven, decently dressed but wearing a jacket too large for his small frame, innocence still etched in his face.
That's when the homeless man took a few steps forward.
Beside Sherlock, John had tensed.
"John-?" Sherlock lay a hand on his arm in warning.
The doctor's eyes darted between the boy and the man, and then he was in motion, gun drawn, before Sherlock could react.
The homeless man also surged forward, his hand reaching into his pocket, retrieving a knife. The gang members were agitated, some moving forward warily while others, battle-weary, stepped back.
"Don't do it!" John screamed. Pleaded. "Don't!"
Sherlock charged toward the man who was rushing the boy, but John's full attention was now on the youngster, who reached under his jacket and pulled out a short-barrelled semi-automatic. Before he could take aim, John fired.
The boy fell, dead, centre shot.
Soon, the area was bathed in blue flashing lights of a Met gang task force patrol. Since everything had taken place in a public space, only Sherlock's surreptitious texts to his brother and Lestrade had ensured the doctor's protection.
Still, Sherlock and John had been separated before giving their statements.
Now, in the safety of the taxi, Sherlock still did not fully understand how John could have been certain that the boy had been the threat and not the older man. In fact, like John, the older man had put himself in jeopardy trying to stop the boy.
There was always something. When it came to John Watson, he always missed some detail or truth which turned out to be pertinent.
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song,
Right me when I'm wrong-
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you.
How did John right him when the Consulting Detective was so wrong tonight? What did he see that Sherlock hadn't?
"His eyes," John said quietly as though telepathic. "That's how I knew. I hesitated the last time. In Afghanistan. It was a boy then, too," he said, his voice cracking the slightest bit.
John's voice breaking was not all right, Sherlock decided.
"Same look in his eyes, same stance. Two of my men died. I owed it to them not to hesitate ever again."
Sherlock nodded, but John was still staring vacantly out of the window at the light-studded darkness of London floating by.
"And then you saw the gun," Sherlock concluded. Off John's nod, he continued. "The police said he was trying to get into another gang, having reasoned that taking out members from two rival ones would impress the leaders."
John snorted in disgust.
"But the man, John, he had a knife. How-?"
John finally made eye contact. "His eyes, too."
Sherlock wasn't following. Or, this was not the full story yet.
"Okay, that and the tattoo on his neck. Parachute Regiment, Special Air Service, Falklands."
"Hmm. A veteran," Sherlock said, kicking himself for missing yet another thing. "PTSD?"
"Probably. But it didn't stop him from trying to save lives tonight."
Sherlock looked admiringly at his friend. He didn't say PTSD didn't stop you, either because he didn't need to. They read each other's minds.
Maybe he is amazed, he conceded. Frightened, too. He had never been swept up, taken in, bewitched like this by anyone. Ever. Was John even aware of the effect he had on him? Despite his occasional shining moments, the man could be really quite obtuse.
As the cab continued on its way toward the haven of Baker Street, the tension in John's shoulders began to dissipate, and Sherlock sighed in relief.
He bathed in his conductor's light and decided that there were worse things in life than being thoroughly bewitched.
.
.
* Lyrics to "Maybe I'm Amazed" by Paul McCartney.